


Only You For Me

by Ilyria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Courtship, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Porn With Plot, Teenage Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3740806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilyria/pseuds/Ilyria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discharged from the army, John takes on a lucrative job as a bodyguard for a wealthy man's spoiled, pampered teenage brother. </p><p>He anticipates babysitting and boredom, not a brilliant, precocious omega, murder cases, or falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only You For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Because there can never be enough omega Sherlock!

From his first glance at his future employer, John knows immediately that this security job will be boring, albeit lucrative. The man, a posh alpha about his age, oozes wealth and privilege from his pores, his well-fitted, three-piece suit easily twofold John’s pitiful pension. Still, he needs the money, and six months to a year of checking security details and looming menacingly in the background as powerful men conduct business isn’t a big sacrifice of his partiality for danger and action.

“You will be guarding my younger brother,” Holmes says in his wellbred, upper class accent, banishing right away any hope for the slightest possibility of excitement. “He is prone to get himself into all manners of trouble. He is an omega, so you understand my concerns. I do not want him left alone, especially with another alpha. Wherever he goes, you go. You will be his chauffeur and chaperone. You’ll drive him to where he needs to go and keep a close eye on him at all times. He will try to throw you off and go off on his own often. I must warn you he has quite the difficult character, but you will find yourself more than suitably compensated for your efforts, of course. You are well-qualified and come very highly recommended, so I trust that your professionalism will not be affected by the sharp tongue of a teenager.”

So he’ll be driving around and babysitting some rich, spoiled teenager. John’s professional response doesn’t betray his inner groaning. “I assure you that will not be a problem.”

Six months to a year, just six months to a year until he finds his feet in London, he consoles himself.

Nothing could have convinced him how attached to his client he will eventually become. Or how wrong he is about the job.

\-----

The omega in question turns out to be just what he expected after meeting the brother: privileged, spoiled, and uttered self-absorbed. Sprawled lazily on the sofa in a tailored suit without a care for causing wrinkles, all long, elegant limbs, he’s gazing far off at the ceiling when they enter his sitting room. A raise of his head, and John can feel himself being sized up.

The omega is about sixteen and really quite lovely for his age. In a few years, he would be quite the ladykiller with those cheekbones. Or mankiller with those full lips. As he is now, tall and slender, he looks like a young male model, the kind that schoolgirls crush on and wealthy men spoil and dine. Holmes has every reason to worry as much as he does.

The young man’s eyes flick over to his brother. He scowls in such a petulant way that already has John dreading putting up with his antics. “I already told you no multiple times. I absolutely refuse to have one of your minions trail me everywhere.”

“And as I’ve already informed you, Sherlock, you’ve proven over and over again that you can’t be trusted to be on your own and require a watchful eye on you at all times,” Holmes says, tone used to repeating himself with Sherlock. “You have only yourself to blame with how you evade poor Oliver and give him so much trouble.” A gesture at John. “This is John Watson and he will escort you wherever you go. He has quite the varied skill set. I am certain you will find him interesting at the very least.”

“Yes, I can see that. Doctor… no, surgeon, and ex-army. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Startled, John gapes open-mouthed. “Afghanistan. How did you know?”

“Military bearing. Scars and callouses on your hands speak of surgeries, not just wrapping tourniquets. Tan lines on your neck and wrists indicate you were recently in the Middle East. Work, not leisure,” the young man drawls. “You’re too careful with your left side… You were invalided home from a shoulder injury.”

“Amazing,” John breathes out in wonder. Not five minutes in the room and the young man had already discovered all of that. A young genius is his new charge.

Sherlock seems taken aback by his awed reaction but recovers. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“It’s brilliant,” John affirms.

Holmes clears his throat. “Sherlock, I hope you will not give John any trouble with your nonsense. I will leave you now to be acquainted.” He clasps hands with John and takes his leave.

John is left standing awkwardly by himself so he takes a seat on the armchair adjacent to the sofa. Sherlock’s eyes watch him the entire time, analyzing him. He says nothing, so John makes a feeble attempt at conversation. “What year are you in school?”

That breaks Sherlock’s steadfast study of him. He scoffs. “I stopped attending Harrow two years ago when I presented.”

It’s not uncommon for omegas to drop out after presentation. Many parents don’t want their omega children in such hormonally-charged environments with adolescents just coming into and learning to control their biological urges. Some omegas become homeschooled, and some with money transfer to pricey omega-exclusive private schools that can accommodate students going through heat on a regular basis. Not many omegas proceed to higher education, although more and more are doing so now.

“Mycroft hired a private tutor for me, but he proved an imbecile and I soon surpassed him in knowledge and skills. I suppose I’ll go to Cambridge eventually in a couple of years. Family legacy, though I’d be the first omega in the family line to do so. That is, if Mycroft doesn’t marry me off to an alpha to raise a brood first. Until then, I have my own research to occupy my time.”

John is intrigued. “What kind of research do you do?”

“Forensics mainly. But enough about me. You’re to be my bodyguard, I want to know more about you. Let me see here. Don’t tell me right away.

“You’re left-handed and shave with a straight razor like you were taught. Strict upbringing by a conservative alpha father who raised you to write with your right hand, and to do well in school and become a doctor. It’s what led you to join the army: to rebel against your conventional life in a way that won’t antagonize your traditionalist father too much. All because,” here, his silvery eyes flash, “you _crave_ danger. You enlist for the war in Afghanistan, and when sent back here, you choose a profession that’ll have you in the line of fire.”

John stares, stunned. “That’s quite extraordinary.”

There’s that same confused but pleased expression. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, you’re really quite clever, aren’t you?”

The pleasure blooms into a shy, flattered smile. “Most people would say ‘piss off’.”

John gives a genuine, hearty laugh that has Sherlock struggling to maintain his teenage broodiness against its infectious cheer.

“There’s just one exception though,” John says when he finishes laughing. “You’re right that he was a strict and traditional man. But it was his attachment to drink and not much else that made me leave for the army.” The old man’s long gone now, drunk himself to death during John’s deployment, but now his sister’s inherited his legacy, and sometimes, in his broodier moments, John wonders if escaping to the army hadn’t been the right decision, if he could’ve made a difference for Harry had he not let his temper rule him.

“There’s _always_ something!” Sherlock scowls, obviously can’t stand not being right.

“I suppose I should warn you that I sometimes don’t talk for days and play the violin at all hours. If that bothers you, you’ll just have to endure it. My brother is paying you to, after all. Don’t get in the way of my experiments. Don’t talk too much, I can’t stand vapid chatter. Oh, and I take tea with cream and three sugars.” An upturned palm rises in expectation.

John gets up awkwardly and pours the tea into expensive bone china.

\-----

John later returns to his lonely, little flat to pack up his things. Alongside the generous paycheque, he is provided with room and board in a private wing of the house and three full meals a day. He still plans to keep his flat for his days off though, for when he wants some distance from his job.

It takes him under five minutes to pack up his clothes and his dated laptop—military habit from always being on the move. He spends the night on his lumpy single bed and rises before dawn as usual, another military habit. After his morning exercises and breakfast, he sets off with his duffle to the lavish Holmes residence for the first day of his new job.

It’s only half past six, so he’s surprised to find his charge awake and playing the violin. Sherlock’s long, slender body moves like a willow with every stroke of the bow. He’s wearing a rumpled dressing gown and looks like he hasn’t gone to bed at all the previous night. A tray of delicious breakfast scones and tea sits untouched on the table.

Sherlock doesn’t stop his playing to acknowledge him. John can tell that he’s quite talented even though he doesn’t know the first thing about the violin or classical music.

He sits down on the armchair that he’s coming to claim as his, helps himself to tea and scones, and opens the morning newspaper. And thus the morning passes. Sherlock later becomes absorbed with typing something furiously on his laptop, muttering under his breath and frowning at the screen. John goes over the security in Sherlock’s rooms, impressed but unsurprised to find that Holmes spares no expense for his brother’s safety.

No word is exchanged between them all morning. John is fine with that.

\-----

The more he learns of Sherlock’s ways, the more endearing he finds his eccentricities. Sherlock, he discovers, hardly eats or sleeps. He explains to John that he finds both activities dull and only partakes in the obligatory bite and nap when his body absolutely requires fuel and recharge. He keeps a real human skull on the mantelpiece that he makes lengthy soliloquys to in John’s presence without the least bit of embarrassment or self-consciousness. He’s sharp-tongued and unapologetic, insensitive and utterly tactless, and John is lucky to have such thick skin from growing up with Harry and being in the army. Sherlock whirls around in his dressing gown, all long legs and untamed curls, like an unstoppable human tornado and God help whoever is in his way. He orders John, who’s nearly twice his age and an _alpha_ , about like a servant to make his tea and fetch a graduated cylinder. John supposes he should feel more affronted and put up some resistance instead of doing what he does, which is roll his eyes in fond exasperation and do what he’s told.

Having no school to attend to regularly and often too preoccupied with his research and experiments to do much else, Sherlock rarely leaves the house. John spends the day content to just sip fine Darjeeling tea and read books from the vast Holmes library (which he is a little surprised to find is not just for show, evident by the wear and tear of regular use on the books) and even write emails to Harry. It’s boring but comfortable and the tea is good and John can dine on three delicious, wonderfully-cooked full course meals a day instead of takeaway and canned soups. He really shouldn’t complain.

“Oh, Doctor Watson, have you heard the news? It’s terrible,” Bertha the housekeeper exclaims when she brings up afternoon tea. “They’re calling it a suicide epidemic now.”

John knows what she’s referring to. He rests an assuring hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of these mysterious suicides soon.”

Sherlock snorts, not looking up from his microscope. “Not likely. This is Scotland Yard after all. They’d sooner chase after their own footprints than the right ones.”

Beside him, his phone vibrates with a new text. He scrunches his eyebrows at the message and types out a quick reply before declaring, “John, get the car. I need to pay a visit to Scotland Yard.”

“What do you need to visit Scotland Yard for?”

“To disprove every half-baked theory they may conceive about the suicide murders, of course.”

“You think the suicides are murder?!”

Sherlock releases a put-upon sigh. “Just get the car.”

The car allotted for Sherlock’s transportation, it turns out, is a sleek black Jaguar. Along with good tea, driving luxury cars is another perk of working for the Holmeses that John can really get behind. Sherlock orders him to step on it, which he happily complies.

To his surprise, the address Sherlock gives him isn’t the Metropolitan Police headquarters but a residential area in Brixton.

Sherlock remains tight-lipped but physically brims with excitement as he madly types out texts. It’s the happiest John has seen him in the short time he’s known him.

\-----

Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police is easily the type of man John respects. He’s an alpha and, like John, has rightfully earned his badge through hard work and dedication to his job. His mouth is set in a grim line. Despite being the one to invite Sherlock, he doesn’t look happy to see Sherlock.

“Who’s this?” He jerks his chin at John.

“Mycroft has hired a personal bodyguard to accompany me everywhere I go.”

“Good, you certainly need someone to keep you out of trouble.”

“John Watson,” John introduces himself, offering a hand.

Lestrade takes it. “Greg Lestrade.” A firm handshake. Their eyes meet and alpha understanding passes. Lestrade nods.

“You know I don’t like doing this, but I don’t have a choice here. Ten minutes. No more.” He jabs a stern finger at Sherlock.

“You need me. Your forensic scientist is an idiot,” Sherlock says arrogantly. “If you’d only accepted that fact and allowed me on the case earlier, perhaps the culprit would be caught already and this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

Lestrade glares at him. “I’m still not letting you on the case. Just ten minutes at the crime scene. Then you tell me everything you know, and I mean _everything_. No withholding information to try to get involved in the case like last time or I am never contacting you for assistance again.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but Lestrade cuts him off. “I’m only asking this time because if there is any chance that another victim can be prevented, we have to take it. God help me if I let civilians run amok at crime scenes.”

John can empathize. What decent alpha can in good conscience let a civilian teenage omega near crime scenes?

They follow Lestrade to the scene of the crime, the uppermost level of an old, modest block of flats. A dead woman lays face down on the hardwood floor, her arm outstretched to trace something in blood with a finger. Out of place around her is a bright pink luggage.

Two other people are present, and from the looks of dislike they shoot at Sherlock, are familiar with him. John awkwardly hangs back near the door, not wanting to disrupt the investigation, but Sherlock prances straight to the body without hesitation.

John watches in fascination as he pulls out a small magnifying square and proceeds to dance around the body, alternating between leaning in closely examine the woman’s hair, neck, hands and feet and stepping back to gauge the whole picture. Lestrade also watches him, anxious. The Met must really be desperate if they’re soliciting the help of a teenager, albeit a genius.

Once his thorough examination is complete, Sherlock straightens and rattles off his findings at a speed faster than John can follow. John can only stare, dumbfounded, at his display of brilliance. The omega is waving his arms animatedly, energized by the thrill of unravelling a mystery. He’s absolutely dazzling like this: in his element, his face lit with excitement and pale eyes gleaming with intelligence.

When Lestrade finally boots them from the crime scene as promised, Sherlock ruminates, then insists they go have dinner because John must be famished.

“I know a place.” He directs John to a modest Italian restaurant. “I did the owner a favour not too long ago by proving he was burglaring instead of murdering. Got him off a murder charge.”

Angelo, the owner, a large, middle-aged beta, greets Sherlock with sincere warmth and gratitude, fondly enfolding Sherlock’s hand in his giant paws. “Whatever you want is on the house. Anything for you and your date. I’ll just go get a candle. Make it more romantic for you and your alpha friend.”

John stiffens, awkward, but Angelo disappears before he can correct his assumption. Sherlock doesn’t seem to find anything amiss as he sits down and scans the menu.

John supposes it’s an easy mistake to make. An alpha and omega pair out together on Saturday, a date night. But Sherlock is so young, and John is too old for him. He isn’t one to pursue lovers so young. He thinks of alphas that like to prey on pretty, underage omegas and cringes at what people may think of him and Sherlock.

When Angelo returns with the candle, John pointedly makes it known, “I’m not his date,” but feels it fall flat when Angelo further produces a glass vase with a single rose.

They order, or rather, Sherlock orders for them both like John _is_ his date.

Still self-conscious of the impression they give, John shifts in his seat. Sherlock is looking out the window, seemingly unaware of his discomfort.

Unable to stop thinking of it, John realizes that in the time he’s known him Sherlock hasn’t mentioned anyone special at all or indicated he’s dating anyone. He clears his throat. “So, uh, do you have an alpha friend?”

Not looking away from the window, Sherlock responds, “Not really my area.”

“Oh, so you prefer betas?” He keeps his tone light, non-judgmental. Alpha and omega pairings outside of the traditional alpha-omega bond are more common and socially accepted now, though alpha-alpha relations still bear stigma.

“I suppose you can say that I’m attached to my work instead. It’d be futile for me to have any sort of preferences anyway. You know my fate as much as I do. I can only hope that the alpha Mycroft marries me off to isn’t an utterly detestable idiot.”

Feeling more than a little sorry for Sherlock, John doesn’t say anything more on the subject. As another alpha and brother to a destructive, reckless sibling, he can tell that Holmes cares deeply for his little brother. He hopes that Holmes won’t force an arranged marriage on Sherlock, even if arranging matches for omegas is still common practice in the upper echelons of society. Sherlock is too free-spirited to be forced into the confines of marriage against his will.

Sherlock stills. “There, do you see that? John, that’s our man.” He jabs his finger at a cab outside the window.

Before John can get a good look, Sherlock is pulling him out of his chair and out the door. The cab pulls away from the curb before they can get to it, and then they’re sprinting across London at night, down alleyways and shortcuts. Only to wrench the cab door open to a startled American businessman.

John bursts into laughter. Sherlock’s disappointment is stark on his face, but he politely wishes the bemused businessman a pleasant stay in London. He looks so glum at his mistake that John can’t resist teasing him a little.

“Perhaps you should leave chasing suspects to Lestrade and Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock, insulted, scowls darkly at that. “Scotland Yard has proven time and time again that they are utterly incompetent and cannot be trusted to discern what’s right under their noses.”

“Come on, it’s already late. We’ve had enough excitement for the day. Let’s go home,” John says good-naturedly, unable to suppress a fond smile.

During the drive home, Sherlock fidgets in the passenger seat, looking out the window. John can tell that he isn’t used to not being correct and doesn’t like it one bit.

Even geniuses can be wrong sometimes. The thought makes John smile to himself all the more.

\-----

John wants to wring Sherlock’s skinny neck. Not eighty-four hours and he’s already lost Sherlock. What’s worse is that he’s been expecting Sherlock to give him the slip sooner or later. He should’ve been more careful and alert. But the camaraderie of earlier this evening while they visited a crime scene and chased down a cab had relaxed his guard and made him think Sherlock didn’t mind his company. He will be more vigilant from now on.

He needs to find Sherlock immediately and his soldier instincts know exactly where Sherlock is. At the centre of all these murders: with the serial killer himself. Mad, brilliant Sherlock is going to take on a serial killer who has the skill to pull off four suicides without giving himself away.

He tracks Sherlock’s location to a building halfway across the city, praying that the omega hasn’t been harmed in any way. Once he gets Sherlock away safe and sound, he is going to chain the omega to him so that he’s never out of sight.

Moving like a silent shadow, he hurries through the building grounds, his Sig tucked in his holster at the ready. Once inside the building, every corridor looks the same, long and deserted, and every door he tries, much to his frustration, is a dead end.

When he finally finds Sherlock, he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or discouraged. Through the window, in the wing parallel to his own, he can clearly see Sherlock’s slender form, tall and upright like a righteous young angel confronting evil. Across from him is the serial killer, an unremarkable-looking beta senior. A cabbie. So Sherlock wasn’t wrong earlier.

They appear to be in the midst of a serious discussion. John madly calculates whether he can make it into the other room before the killer becomes aggressive and hurts Sherlock. But there’s no time as the killer is giving something to Sherlock—why is Sherlock accepting something from a serial killer?!

Knowing it’s the only thing he can do now, John raises his firearm with surety, aims between the killer’s eyes, and pulls the trigger. He ducks immediately, not needing to check if he’s shot true.

When the police have surrounded the building and cordoned off the area later, he finds Sherlock in the chaos of blaring horns and flashing police sirens. The description of the shooter Sherlock rapidly gives Lestrade is broken off when he catches sight of John.

“Never mind. Forget what I just said. I’m still in shock and not thinking straight.” The look on Lestrade’s face shows it’s more shocking to hear Sherlock admit less than absolute control of his faculties.

“The killer is dead. An unknown shooter shot him but got away,” Sherlock informs John. Realization shines in his eyes. John keeps a neutral face and remembers he’s supposed to be angry.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Well, at least that’s all over now. I’m really angry with you for running away like that.” He tries to be stern, but Sherlock’s silvery eyes are twinkling with the knowledge of what John has done for him. An unspoken agreement to never speak of what they both know hangs between them.

Sherlock doesn’t protest when John leads him to where he’s parked the car.

\-----

John accompanies Sherlock on every case after that. Sherlock doesn’t resist or try to evade him, perhaps having accepted that wherever he goes, John will follow, and John can provide him better protection if he just lets John come in the first place.

Sherlock shares his deductions with him, which John never grows any less amazed over. His website, The Science of Deduction, really just a blog where he posts his research, findings, and deductions, advertises his skills for hire on a case-by-case basis. Most of his work come from the general public rather than the Met and are trivial and harmless for the most part (suspicions of unfaithful spouses, stolen items of sentimental value, or sums of money gone missing, rarely mysteriously). He calls himself a “consulting detective” which despite the ridiculous title is an accurate description of his service.

Accompanying a young, precocious genius consulting detective while he goes gallivanting through the rough streets of London isn’t what John expected when he took this job—and he’s quite sure it isn’t what Holmes had in mind or would approve of either—but John is certain he won’t grow tired of it any time soon. The job is growing on him despite the long hours and Sherlock’s insufferable behaviour at times.

He finds himself doing things he never imagined himself doing as a civilian back in London, like spending long stretches of the night in stake outs, sneaking into buildings afterhours, skirting around the edges of the law, interacting with all sorts of dodgy characters such as the homeless and small-time drug dealers, and, on more than one occasion, posing as people he’s not to wheedle delicate information out of key witnesses or suspects. He even climbed into a skip once to dig for clues in a suspect’s trash as he didn’t want Sherlock to ruin his expensive shoes only for an impatient Sherlock to hop in anyway, and the two of them reeked for twelve hours after.

John stays with Sherlock from early in the morning until evening when Holmes and his security personnel return home. Sundays are his days off, so he usually returns to his flat Saturday evening and spends the weekend on his cheap, hard mattress. It’s a far cry from the luxury of the Holmes residence but it’s _his_ space.

The evenings are John’s to do with as he pleases. Sometimes John stays in after dinner, enjoys a sherry with Bertha, watches the telly or reads a book, and sometimes he goes out to the local for a pint with his mates.

John runs into Lestrade at a pub once and has a few drinks with him. They become fast friends. They talk footie (Greg is an avid Man U fan), their personal lives (John doesn’t know what to do after the military, Greg is going through a divorce), and swap stories of the Met, John’s service, and of course Sherlock, sharing laughs over Sherlock’s antics.

Greg had met Sherlock almost a year ago during the high profile Graff Diamonds thefts. Stumped by the ingenious burglaries, Scotland Yard started receiving a series of scathing letters debunking their ideas and instructing them how to proceed from a mysterious source. When it came to light that Scotland Yard’s finest had received a dressing down from a fifteen-year-old omega, some Yarders never fully recovered from the humiliation or left behind their hostility toward Sherlock. Since then, Greg has been torn over soliciting Sherlock’s expertise, not wanting to involve an underage omega in criminal investigations and yet desperate for Sherlock’s aptitude for deducing clear conclusions from obtuse facts.

When Greg’s divorce is finalized not long after, John takes him out to drown his sorrows and regrets in alcohol. Three pubs and countless shots of whiskey later, Greg is still moping like a depressed dog, so John, ever the good mate, takes him to a strip club to restore his faith in bachelorhood.

There, a stunning, bronze-skinned beta takes a shine to Greg and is giving him enviable close-ups of her ample cleavage when John receives a text from Sherlock.

_Where are you? –SH_

_Out with Lestrade. What is it?_

_I’m in need of your assistance for an experiment. I’ve concocted an atomized ocular drug to impede an alpha’s reflexes and response time and require a test subject immediately. –SH_

John rolls his eyes. Trust Sherlock not to understand, or care about, ethics regarding human testing, or even violations of employer-employee boundaries. Even if he were to consent to Sherlock spraying his own, more potent rendition of a pepper spray into his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to provide adequate data given how inebriated he already is.

 _Not coming home tonight. Don’t wait up._ Pocketing his phone, he ignores the buzzing of new texts from Sherlock and grins at a scantily blonde omega a few feet away. Before he knows it, he’s balancing his pint in one hand and a warm, perfumed weight on his lap.

He’s in the middle of impressing her with tales from his military service while she coyly toys with his collar when the outcry comes.

“John!”

His head snaps up to see a scowling, flinty-eyed Sherlock towering over them, fists on his hips. Dressed in a plain oxford shirt and khakis and looking so very young and out of place, he sticks out in this licentious den of gleaming, half-naked bodies. Curious looks turn to them from around.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to get you. Come on, you’re coming home with me _now_.” He glares at John’s curvaceous company, and, to John’s horror, his mouth opens and out fall deductions of her string of abusive boyfriends, the current one a beta with an alpha complex, product of a single mother upbringing, recent failure at launching an import modelling career. Tears in her eyes, she shoots up from John’s lap as if he has herpes and totters away.

Looks like he won’t be getting a leg over tonight. John sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “How did you get here?”

Sherlock grumbles. “I am fully capable of taking a cab, you know. It’s not difficult to figure out where you and Lestrade are or what you’re up to. Lestrade’s been more depressed than usual, obviously because of the divorce. You two go to the same local four-fifths of the time and this is the only strip club in a one-kilometre vicinity.”

“ _Sherlock?_ ” A bemused Greg blinks back and forth from Sherlock to John. “Wha-How did you get _in_ here?”

Sherlock falters but answers haughtily anyway. “Through the front door, of course, like any normal patron.”

“I’ve told you using a false ID is an offence.”

“So you have, but it was of utmost urgency that I get in here to rescue John from that _tart_.”

“Um, I was quite happy before you came along to ‘rescue’ me actually,” John mumbles, feeling himself sober up. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s go.”

For someone so thin, Sherlock can sure manhandle him out of the club.

\-----

With his days taken up by Sherlock, and his nights spent at the Holmes residence, John hardly has the time for dating. Ironically, despite returning to London and the vast number of eligible women available, he’s lacking in feminine company more so than during his service. He can’t very well bring women back to his room at his employer’s house, and he’s only at his flat one or two nights a week.

As such, since being employed by the Holmeses, he’s only stayed overnight with two women, always at their places. They were both betas, quite nice and attractive enough. If only John had more time available to pursue romance, he might have gone further than just a handful of dates, texts, and emails with either of them. But unfortunately, just when John thinks there is the potential for the dating to lead somewhere, Sherlock’s caseload increases and the hours of chasing Sherlock chasing suspects grow longer.

He’s only ever dated women—and all of them betas simply because betas far outnumber omegas. The casual fling that he had with a male alpha in the military was purely out of convenience and only constituted lending a hand to jack the other off, so it didn’t count. His most serious relationship was with a beta woman named Mary and lasted three years after uni before they parted on good terms. After that was a string of beta women whose company he greatly enjoyed but nothing long-lasting and then he left for the military.

It doesn’t help his dating prospects that everywhere he and Sherlock go, they are mistaken for a couple. He made the mistake of chatting up a pretty, blonde lab technician at Bart’s only for her to glance nervously at Sherlock and, obviously uncomfortable, mutter something under her breath and walk away. The same thing happened with a waitress who rebuffed his small talk and looked pityingly at Sherlock who was busy texting and oblivious. Even a streetside florist they passed by asked if John would like to some peonies for his omega.

For his part, Sherlock seems unbothered by the assumptions people make of the two of them. For someone who loves being the centre of attention, he doesn’t seem annoyed at all when strangers turn to address John out of deference to his alpha status when they’re together.

Moreover, it really doesn’t help matters when pretty, young Sherlock doesn’t seem at all aware of how his innocent actions may be construed. He has no sense of personal space when it comes to John. John knows it’s likely subconscious, not at all intentional, but Sherlock walks with such ease and assurance beside him like it’s his place to. If it’s raining in London, he would press himself close to John under the umbrella like they’re a couple huddling from the cold. He helps himself to John’s tea or latte the way lovers would share a drink without words. When John’s on the sofa watching telly, Sherlock would rest his head on John’s lap while he reads, and loudly criticizes, the latest scientific journal. And sometimes, when they’re taking a cab home, he would curl up at John’s side like a giant cat and rest his head on his good shoulder.

As his dating life is all but spectacular, John is always happy to meet women. He meets Sophia, a pretty beta barrister from Essex, at a pub on a hen night. He catches her glancing at him a few times and raises his lager to salute her. She smiles, shyly raises her own in return. That’s all the encouragement he needs and not fifteen minutes later he’s bought her a drink and is making her laugh.

A thoroughly smashed woman from the hen party swings her arm over her shoulders and openly checks out John. She claps her back and whispers, drunk-loud, in her ear, “Dishy alpha, isn’t he? Good on you, Sophie! About time you met someone and got over that berk.”

Sophia blushes while John laughs.

He grins all the way home that night, in high spirits, a new number in his phone and a coffee date in his calendar.

\-----

Sherlock’s foul mood doesn’t offset John’s good humour in the slightest when he arrives the next morning. Sherlock’s quick eyes flick all over John, his face darkening. “You went out last night to a pub. You met a beta woman there you have plans to meet again. You shouldn't bother. She recently ended a long-term relationship which she expected would lead to marriage and is now desperate to attract any eligible man, someone who won’t mind her education and successful career. A doctor, and an _alpha_ too, is more than what she hopes for. She'll expect you to call everyday and want to see you three times a week. It won't last until the end of the month.”

Not deterred at all, John responds amiably, "She seems quite nice yesterday. I'd like to get to know her more before I decide to continue seeing her or not."

Scowling, Sherlock saws away at his violin, making dissonant, earpiercing noises.

He remains in a strop for the better part of the day, stomping around and even setting off a minor explosion, leaving black scorch marks on the wallpaper. Used to his mercurial moods, John ignores him in favour of reading the news and emailing an old army mate.

That very evening Sherlock announces that John will accompany him for dinner at an upscale French restaurant John can’t even pronounce. There’s a dress code and its prices would have made John balk before he started working for Holmes and became used to the luxury of their lavish lifestyle.

“Is there someone you want to follow?” John asks, interest piqued. Perhaps some high profile businessman or politician?

Sherlock’s ears turn pink. “No, I just wanted to enjoy an evening meal there with you.”

Oh, well, if Sherlock wants to experience fine French cuisine occasionally, John certainly won’t discourage him. The boy doesn’t eat enough as it is and hardly seems to have much interest in food.

Holmes has generously supplied him with two bespoke suits at the start of his employment for when he is to accompany Sherlock on the occasional, obligatory society function. The suits are of high quality fabric and finely tailored, made by Holmes’ personal tailor, bearing compartments expertly sewn into the seams to conceal weapons. For this evening, John chooses the navy suit, the most casual and least intimidating and bodyguard-like of the three. Upon seeing Sherlock, he’s glad he opted for a suit instead of his usual wool jumper and leather jacket affair.

Sherlock in a lovely, fitted suit is stunning. His curls are neatly tamed with gel and his patent leather shoes are like black mirrors. He looks like he ought to be a model for luxury menswear, effortlessly embodying the essence of youthful elegance and class. Once he steps foot into the restaurant, he’ll undoubtedly be turning heads.

Admiration swells inside John. Here is such a beautiful, intelligent, precocious sixteen-year old omega. Over the next few years, he will only grow more beautiful as his elegant features sharpen with maturity. And maybe his scathing tongue and foul temper will mellow out once he leaves the rebellious years of teenagehood. No, John decides. Sherlock’s charm lies in his passion and intensity, his sole focus on whatever happens to win his attention. Sherlock would not be Sherlock without his obsessions and fixations, his stubbornness and scowls and demands.

At the restaurant, it’s just as John anticipates. People stare as they enter. The restaurant is normally booked weeks in advance, but, given the Holmeses’ clout, they are ushered to a private VIP table separate from the main dining area.

If his dinner partner isn’t Sherlock, John would probably be concerned about the ideas people would get. As it is, however, John doesn’t give a second thought to what they look like to an observer: a smartly dressed alpha and omega couple dining together.

He struggles with the menu, his rudimentary French just enough for him to differentiate the hot entrees from the cold entrees, before giving up. Sherlock asks if he’d prefer the duck or veal and orders for them both in impeccable French.

John commends his language skills and watches, amused, as Sherlock’s ears turn pink.

“Grand-mère —my grandmother—is from Provence. I spent my summers there when I was growing up,” he explains. Suddenly modest for someone who thrives on praise and loves to show off, he adds, “I only speak five languages; Mycroft is fluent in twelve.” John finds it cute.

Sherlock proves to be an attentive and excellent conversationalist through dinner, commenting at the right moments and inquiring about the right subjects. Over a delicious meal of duck confit and foie gras, John shares an amusing anecdote of his time in Afghanistan, one of the few that isn’t bloody and disturbing. He marvels at Sherlock’s good behaviour and impeccable manners and etiquette. Gone is his typical surly, biting self, and he doesn’t dominate the conversation with lengthy monologues like usual. He is every bit the well-brought up progeny of a wealthy, classy family.

After their dishes are cleared, Sherlock shyly brings out a gift for John. It’s a small rectangular box wrapped in a tasteful shade of navy. “This is for you.”

Surprised at this gesture of kindness and generosity from Sherlock, John unwraps the gift to find the box contains a mobile phone. A sleek, professional BlackBerry instead of the flashy, oversized iPhones and Androids carried by young people these days.

“You’re still using your sister’s old phone. It’s obviously intended for your temporary convenience until you settle into London and procure one of your own, but you continue to use it because you don’t care for having the latest technology. This phone has already been programmed with your contacts’ information.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. This is very kind of you.” John is genuinely moved. He is already acquainted with the older Holmes’ generosity, but to receive something from Sherlock who is self-absorbed and inconsiderate most of the time is endearing.

Sherlock looks pleased. Feeling warm inside, John resolves not to yell at Sherlock for his experiments, rude behaviour, or reckless tendencies for at least the next three days.

The waiter brings their bill not long after, instinctually giving it to John. Servers, clerks, and cabbies naturally turn to John for payment as he’s the alpha, which John doesn’t mind. He usually is the one to pay anyway since Sherlock can’t be bothered to care about details like tipping. At the start, Holmes had provided John with a credit card for any expenses incurred on behalf of the job or Sherlock. This evening, however, John decides he’ll pay for the wonderful dinner himself, but Sherlock snatches up the billfold.

John has never let a date of his pay for him and isn’t about to start now with an omega of all people. Still, he finds it adorable that Sherlock is trying to win his good graces. Perhaps out of remorse for his black temper today? “Give me the bill, Sherlock.”

Sherlock refuses, so John takes his hands in his. “Sweetheart, you’ve already done more than enough taking me here and giving me a present. Let me take care of this at least.”

Sherlock, glowing, relents at his use of the endearment.

They are just about to leave when a smartly dressed and well-to-do alpha approaches their table. He shakes John’s hand, openly admiring Sherlock. “You’re a very lucky one, my friend. Your omega is a true beauty.”

John laughs at his honest mistake. “Oh, he’s not mine. I’m not his alpha,” he corrects him.

The alpha’s eyes widen and sweeps over Sherlock with interest. “Is that right? What is your name, darling?”

Sherlock stiffens, his face becoming impassive. He brushes past the alpha to be beside John and slips an arm through his. “Shall we leave, John?” He doesn’t acknowledge the alpha at all.

“Fiesty, isn’t he?” the alpha remarks, amused, unoffended by Sherlock’s rudeness.

You have no idea, John thinks as he leads Sherlock out of the restaurant.

Sherlock doesn’t speak a word as they wait for the valet to return with the Jaguar and remains silent throughout the drive home. With anyone else, John would be worried at the sudden, odd silence, but it’s typical of Sherlock’s mood to change with the blink of an eye. In fact, Sherlock’s good behaviour tonight is quite abnormal for him.

Once home, John parks outside the main entrance and is about to get out to open the car door for Sherlock when Sherlock stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“John.” His voice is low and solemn.

John turns to him. He’s looking straight ahead, not at John. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Back at the restaurant, why did you tell that alpha we aren’t together?” He sounds upset.

“Because we’re not,” John responds, confused at the question. “It’s a nice dinner, but it’s not like it was a date.”

Sherlock huffs, whirling to face him. His eyes gleam with hurt. “Why not? Why won’t you see me that way? I take you out for dinner, I give you gifts, we spend most of our time together and clearly enjoy each others’ company, which is more than can be said for a lot of marriages. I’m an omega, you’re an alpha. You’re unattached and I’m available. Why don’t you date me? Do you really find my looks unappealing?”

Dumbstruck, John can’t decide if it’s harder to believe that Sherlock likes him or thinks he’s unattractive.

Sherlock _likes_ him. He’s flattered, but oh God, how could this have happened?

His brain shuts down. He doesn’t know what to say. He can only sit, frozen, in the driver’s seat, gaping at Sherlock open-mouthed.

Impatient, Sherlock cups his face and surges forward, planting his mouth against his. His taste is pleasant and sweet like any omega and makes John want to press harder and devour his mouth.

Then Sherlock shyly presses his tongue against John’s. Neurons crackle back to life in John’s brain.

John pulls away gasping for air like a drowning man, grips Sherlock’s thin shoulders and pushes him away. Sherlock looks like he might cry.

“I…” John finally finds his voice, clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. But we can’t do this.”

Letting out a strangled sob, Sherlock wrenches out of his hold and flees the car right into the house.

Ten minutes must have passed before John regains enough control to park the car into the garage.

\-----

That night John sleeps fitfully, dreading the morning when he’ll have to face Sherlock again. He’ll have to have a talk with Sherlock, explain himself and why this isn’t a good idea.

Yes, they are biologically compatible and both single, so they are a potential match for each other. But, aside from the fact that Sherlock is his charge so any sort of entanglement between them is inappropriate, Sherlock is so young and John is too old for him, and they both lead such different lives. Sherlock belongs in a life of luxury and expensive tastes, one where he will be cared for, pampered, and never want for anything. John is a discharged soldier with PTSD and nightmares, with no money to his name but a modest sum from his pension and this job, and no clear direction in his life now that a career in the military or surgery is out of the question. It was a stroke of luck that his friend, Mike, referred him to Holmes and he got this job offer, but that is mainly due to his good character and, to a lesser extent, his transferable skills. John has nothing to offer someone who deserves the sun and the stars.

Sherlock just has an innocent crush. If he had more options for a romantic interest, he wouldn’t choose John anyway, an alpha almost twice his age. He must be lonely, always in the house with no friends his age and no future to look forward to other than marrying an alpha and raising a litter. It breaks John’s heart to think that such a perfect young creature, so smart and beautiful, who can have anyone he wants, can be so desperate for love that he’d set his sights on the only viable option around: an ill-fitting old, damaged alpha.

In the morning, he will clear things up with Sherlock and they can put this behind them.

\-----

Sherlock is still in bed when John arrives in the morning. The morning is quiet without Sherlock buzzing around. He settles into his armchair with the newspaper and a morning cuppa to wait for Sherlock to emerge from his bedroom. He’s reading Cameron’s new policy on immigration when the door to Sherlock’s bedroom opens.

Sherlock has only a thin white sheet wrapped around him, his hair mussed, his long legs bare. He stops upon seeing John paralyzed in his chair, clearly not expecting his presence.

“Good morning,” John greets him.

Sherlock’s normally confident voice is low and meek. “I didn’t think you would come today after last night.”

John clears his throat. “Yes, we need to talk about that.”

Sherlock looks so distressed that John wants to hold him. “No, we don’t. There’s no need to discuss anything,” he says, trying to stay neutral. “You made it clear last night that you aren’t attracted to me and do not see me in a romantic light. I made a… miscalculation.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John gets up, moves carefully to Sherlock like he’s a deer that can bolt any second. “You are a very beautiful and smart young omega. You can have anyone you want. You’re still so young and you will meet a more suitable alpha for you than me in the future.”

“But you are right for me! Why can’t you see that? I only want you. Why don’t you want me?” Tears are welling in Sherlock’s eyes by now. “You’re always flirting with beta women and going on dates with them. What about with me? I’d give you anything you want, do anything you like.”

John hates himself for making Sherlock cry and knows what he must do. “Sherlock, even if I wanted to, dating you is out of the question. You are my client. I refuse to compromise our situation and our positions. If you can’t accept the situation, then I have no choice but to resign and let someone else who can be a bodyguard for you take my place.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen as if John’s uttered an inconceivable threat. “No! No, John, I will accept it. Don’t leave,” he begs. “I won’t… I won’t say or do anything about this anymore. Just don’t go.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John enfolds his thin, quivering frame in his arms and holds him steady against his shoulder. “I won’t go anywhere, love. You will meet someone right for you eventually. You have all the time in the world.”

\-----

Sherlock is true to his word and doesn’t say anything more on the subject or make any more moves toward John. He doesn’t try to take him out again. Or at least, John makes sure there are no romantic illusions about their outings.

But he’s obviously unhappy, turning away, his mouth tightening whenever a woman shows an interest in John. For his part, John doesn’t encourage their flirtations, just smiles and politely shoots them down. It’ll take some time for Sherlock to get over his teenage crush and John has no intention of being cruel to him. It’s not until days after his old phone has been discarded that he realizes that his new phone doesn’t have Sophia’s number. There goes his prospect of a sane, normal date in this complicated mess.

Everything goes to pieces when Sherlock goes into heat on John’s watch.

John is accompanying him to an opera for the first time. Sherlock regularly attends concerts and operas and the Holmeses even own a private box at the concert hall. The first and last time John experienced the opera was when he was fourteen on a field trip to see _The Marriage of Figaro_ which he slept through after the first act. Tonight they’re seeing Bizet’s _Carmen_ , and John is determined to stay awake and alert for three long hours of boring classical music.

It’s not as hard as he expected. It helps that the lead omega mezzo-soprano is really attractive. Never mind that John doesn’t get the appeal of listening to such high pitches or having to read subtitles to understand what they’re singing. Watching the actress slink around the stage shaking her hips and seducing the men makes the three hours worthwhile.

She spins a spell over the alpha tenor until he loses his senses and is so besotted with her he descends into madness. John can’t help drawing parallels to Sherlock. Sherlock dazzles you with his brilliance until nothing else compares and before you know it, you see nothing but him and he’s leading you around by the nose. He and Carmen are dangerous omegas, the way they strip away all your senses and reason until you come to believe in nothing but their madness. But John thinks he can understand Don Jose’s willingness to submit himself, to abandon everything for the allure of an omega. With the way he chases after Sherlock now, he probably would follow Sherlock to the mountains if he goes.

He’s so absorbed in the plot that he doesn’t notice it until it’s too late.

Their private box is filled with a distinct sweetness that every alpha can identify. The sweet scent goes straight to John’s cock.

Beside him, Sherlock is quivering in his suit, cowering. He’s sweating, his neatly swept curls damp, his face pale despite the high flush on his cheekbones. In his lap his hands are clenched tight. Sherlock is in pre-heat and looks like he will enter full blown oestrus within two hours.

John curses, furious and incredulous. Sherlock cringes, deliberately avoiding his eyes. Thankfully the boxes around theirs are empty, and they’re high up enough that Sherlock’s tantalizing scent isn’t going to draw any attention from patrons below. They have to leave now if they don’t want to fight their way through a mass of salivating alphas.

How could Sherlock be so _stupid_ to come out when he’s on the verge of heat?

Sherlock flinches. He said that out loud. “I’m sorry, I didn’t anticipate—it’s supposed to start in two days. I didn’t expect it to come so fast so soon. It must be because of close exposure to an alpha’s presence and proximity: you.”

The alpha in John growls as another wave of that irresistible scent hits him, his cock rapidly hardening in his trousers. Before he can haul Sherlock out of the theatre, Sherlock is burying his face in his neck, scenting him. His alpha instincts urge him to press the omega close and rut against that sweet, lithe body.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock lets out a breathy moan, nuzzles against John’s daily stubble. His eyes, dilated until the pale irises are thin rings, widen when they land on the undeniable bulge in John’s crotch. His devilish fingers settle there and deftly undo his trousers.

John groans when those long fingers release his hot, aching cock from his pants. He has half a mind to take Sherlock’s hand and guide his fist up and down his member, teach him how to please his alpha.

Sherlock’s eyes are shining with joy and wonder. “It’s so big. Can I please?” he exhales. He falls gracefully to his knees between John’s legs, looks up at John through his eyelashes.

His pretty, flushed cheeks next to John’s hard, red cock is one of the most erotic things John has seen.

Fuck. He can’t find Sherlock this way. This is _Sherlock_ in front of him.

He shoves Sherlock away, jumps up and quickly fixes his trousers, not bothering with his belt or caring that his erection feels unbearable. Sherlock looks crushed. He yanks Sherlock out of the theatre before they can attract any attention.

The drive home is a pure frenzy. John is surprised he doesn’t run over anything, speeding as he does and taking corners way too quickly. His blood pumps, his alpha instincts roaring at him to knot an omega in heat. In the backseat, Sherlock is coming undone. He’s moaning and making lewd noises, touching himself and begging John to take him, promising anything if only John will touch him. John refuses to look in the rearview mirror for fear he won’t be able to look away.

John pulls into the driveway and doesn’t even bother to cut the engine before he’s dragging Sherlock into the house. The backs of Sherlock’s trousers are wet, and he has to steel himself from tearing off Sherlock’s clothes to touch his juices.

“Please, John, I need you,” Sherlock keens, his pupils blown. John wrenches him harder through the house before he can give in to the alpha need to mount an omega in heat right then and there. Thank God Holmes is in Stockholm for the week and Bertha is away at her sister’s so there is no one home to witness them tonight.

At the door to his bedroom, Sherlock pushes him right up against the wood and rubs the length of his body against John’s, breath hot on John’s ear. John’s hands instinctually go to cup and squeeze his perky arse before he realizes what he’s doing. Oh fuck, John can feel how wet he is through the layers of fabric. He thrusts into Sherlock before he can stop himself, and then they’re frotting all out against the door.

“Fuck me, please. I want to feel your knot in me,” Sherlock wails. “I need you. Say you’ll fuck me.”

“Yes, yes, oh my sweet Sherlock,” John promises, yanking Sherlock’s hips to meet his thrusts. “I’m going to fuck you all night long, all through your heat until you don’t want anyone’s knot but mine.”

“Yes, John. Knot me, make me yours.” Sherlock’s face is flushed with wantonness, his red mouth open, looking so eager to have his superior brains fucked out. John can take him like this, just pull down Sherlock’s trousers and thrust into his wet, leaking arse, bang him over and over again until he doesn’t even know his own name.

Through the haze of alpha lust and aggression, John feels sudden shame, alarm, and horror at what he’s about to do. He’s become the very thing he’s supposed to protect Sherlock from.

As if sensing John’s thoughts, Sherlock scrabbles at John’s crotch with sudden fervour as if to impale himself on John’s cock before John can change his mind.

John doesn’t know how he manages to turn the doorknob, get into Sherlock’s room, and deposit Sherlock on his plush four-poster bed. He knows better than to help Sherlock out of the layers of his expensive suit, now ruined by his arousal. If he sees Sherlock naked and dripping wet, he’s going to lose the last of his resolve.

He shuts the door before he won’t be able to, not seeing the devastation on Sherlock’s face.

\-----

When John shows up at Sherlock’s sitting room three days later, nervous and unsure what to expect, he finds nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock is playing Brahms in the early morning sunlight while an experiment sits frothing on a table. He looks peaky, and God help him, John can still smell the lingering traces of heat. Sherlock doesn’t say anything but he never talks in the morning anyway. John is relieved to find that he doesn’t seem awkward or uneasy around him. He sits down in his armchair and opens the newspaper.

Until without warning Sherlock looms over him and clears his throat pointedly. “John, I have something to say to you.”

Stomach dropping, John lowers his newspaper. “Yes, Sherlock?”

Hand on his hip, Sherlock looks coolly down at him. “I wish to make it clear that whatever happened three days ago was purely due to the onset of my heat. I was obviously not in my right state of mind, and whatever I may have said and done should be discarded. If you would kindly delete what happened between us, we can move on as before.”

Forget this ever happened? John can certainly do that. “Of course, Sherlock. You were under the influence of oestrus and can’t be accountable for your actions. I understand perfectly and I am more than happy to put that behind us.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightens with something, but before John can decipher what, he spins around. “Then we have an understanding. In the future, I will take further precautions to avoid subjecting you to the inconveniences of my heat,” he snaps, tramping away to examine his experiment.

That turned out better than John hoped.

\-----

Complications begin when John _can’t_ forget what happened. He can’t get out of his head erotic images of Sherlock in heat, on top of him in bed, rutting against his cock. Part of him is ashamed and part of him can’t stop thinking of bending Sherlock over a surface and sinking his cock into his plush arse.

He wanks in the shower and still has dirty dreams of Sherlock sitting naked on his cock, of Sherlock on his hands and knees, presenting his tight, leaking arsehole to him, ready to be fucked. He fantasizes about Sherlock’s mouth on his cock, of holding Sherlock still by his curls and thrusting into that mouth, choking him.

He knows it’s the omega pheromones causing this reaction. His alpha urges have not been satisfied and won’t be satisfied until he’s mated the omega.

The cure to his problem is simple though: he just needs to get it out of his system. So that Saturday night he doesn’t bother to stay for Bertha’s mouth-watering roast chicken and takes off right after Holmes returns.

The heady scent of omega pheromones is pungent in the underground bar he goes to. He can smell them, men and women and their need, and they can smell his alpha musk too.

A daring omega in his early twenties detaches from the crowd and circles his arms around John’s shoulders, scents him.

“Take care of me tonight?” The omega suggests in his ear.

John growls, holds the omega tight against his erection.

“I’ve booked a room upstairs.”

John doesn’t need any more encouragement.

Upstairs, they’ve barely crossed the threshold before they’re tearing their clothes off. They fuck, rest, and fuck until they lose count of how many rounds. The omega, Tristan, comes easily due to heat and John in rut has a short refractory period. They do it all night everywhere, in bed, on the carpet, against the wall, sleep, then do it all again the next morning until mid-afternoon when the peak of Tristan’s heat has passed.

“As much as I want to stay here and be fucked by you, I still need to study.” Tristan kisses John while buttoning his shirt. In between their bouts of fucking, John learns he’s a graduate student at LSE. He seems genuinely pleased when John praises his studies and giggles when he finds out that John is a doctor.

Tristan is bright and attractive enough with dimples and large green eyes, although—the thought comes unbidden to John—not brilliant or striking like Sherlock. With all the audacity he approached John with last night, Tristan programs his number into John’s BlackBerry.

“If you ever want some company.” He blows one last kiss and leers at John’s crotch before closing the door.

\-----

The encounter is enough to take the edge off. The last time he was so obsessed with sex must have been in his early twenties in college, when he was surrounded by other similarly sex-obsessed young people and sex could easily be had on a weekly basis.

Sherlock takes one look at him, presses his lips into a grim line, and makes the most awful dissonance on his violin. For the whole day, he ignores John, snaps at him when he has to, and sulks.

John takes care to humour Sherlock, patiently ignoring his rude jabs and not pushing him to eat more than a bowl of soup. Sometimes Sherlock looks so glum and forlorn that John wants to pet and soothe him like a distraught kitten.

Tristan texts John, and although John didn’t intend to see him again at first, he finds himself enjoying the flirtatious banter. He looks up smiling from responding to a text to Sherlock’s dark glare.

Sherlock’s mood continues into the next day, and by the third John is worried. Even Bertha has noticed it and tries to appease his mood with one of her delicious apple pies.

“Look at this, the third omega to be found dead in two months. Isn’t that horrifying?” John holds up the article for Sherlock. With any other omega, it’d be bad taste, but since it’s Sherlock, John hopes the gruesome crime would draw some interest. He gets a snort and nasty jab at Scotland Yard’s incompetency in response.

Finally, when Sherlock’s black mood shows no signs of easing, John, worried, asks directly, “What is the matter, Sherlock? What has been making you unhappy for the past three days?”

Sherlock’s face scrunches into a dark scowl. “As if you care in the slightest about me or my happiness!” he retorts and flounces from the room, slamming the door to his bedroom.

John sits in his armchair, mystified.

\-----

At one point, he catches Sherlock reclined on the sofa, his hands tucked in prayer under his chin. He looks glum, obviously miserable over something.

“How about some tea?” John offers a teacup, hoping fine tea would comfort Sherlock, but Sherlock stubbornly turns his nose away.

“I’m not thirsty.”

John sighs and wants to demand what’s wrong, but Sherlock just rolls to face the inside of the sofa, presenting his back to him.

Sherlock’s recent gloominess is the topic of conversation over pints with Greg that night. It’s a Saturday, so he has the day off tomorrow. Greg is equally puzzled about the cause of Sherlock’s low spirits.

“Are you sure he’s not just bored? Tired of always waiting for us ordinary folk to catch up to his brilliance?” Greg takes a long pull of his ale.

“No, he’d be shooting holes in the wallpaper if he’s ‘just bored’. Or blowing up the parlour.” John stares dejectedly into his drink. “There’s something really troubling him.”

“Maybe a love interest?” Greg drawls, half-joking.

Even though John knows it’s untrue, he finds the thought of Sherlock in love with someone distressing. He shakes his head. “That’s not it. You know Sherlock… He doesn’t like people very much.”

“Lucky for you that he likes you then.”

John doesn’t want to think any more about that and changes the topic to the recent string of omega murders being broadcasted right now on the pub telly.

Sometime after midnight he stumbles back to his flat, reeking of lager and wanting nothing more than to collapse on his lumpy mattress. He tears off his jacket and peels off his jumper, too tired and drunk to care about hanging them up properly, and enters his bedroom to find there’s someone there. In his bed, specifically.

It takes John a moment to believe his eyes. It is Sherlock in his bed, the angles of his face and his curls limned by moonlight. He sits up, the blanket falling down to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his clavicle. It’s obvious he’s not wearing anything under the blanket.

“John, you’re finally home.” He rubs his eye, voice tinged with sleep.

“What are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

“I was waiting for you to return. I used your spare key, of course. I didn’t even need to pick the lock. Really, John, under the doormat? How predictable, although no burglar would bother stealing anything in here anyway.” Sherlock drawls, raising an elegant arm to cover a yawn.

“But why do you have wait _in_ my bed? And why are you naked?”

“Oh John, you can be so dense sometimes. I was waiting for you to come home to have sex with you,” Sherlock huffs, exasperated.

He must be drunker than he thought. Must be getting old, can’t hold his liquor as much anymore. “ _What?_ ”

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and flings off John’s cheap, scratchy blanket. John resolutely keeps his eyes from dropping to his alluring, nude form as he quickly covers him back up.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock glares up at him. “I want to have sex with you,” he says slowly as if John is stupid. “I’ve been waiting hours for you to finish drinking with Lestrade and come home. Now take off your clothes and come fuck me.”

“Sh-Sherlock, you don’t—”

“I know what I’m saying. I’ve decided I want to experience sex for the first time. You’re the only alpha I find agreeable. I know you’re good in bed—those dates of yours wouldn’t have held on so long given how little attention you paid them if you weren’t—and that you’ll make it enjoyable for me.”

John’s head spins. Sherlock wants to lose his virginity to him. Images of a flushed, aroused Sherlock panting, of him mounting Sherlock, caressing his smooth, flawless skin, tenderly breaching him for the first time with his fingers then later his cock flood his mind. He _will_ make it good for Sherlock, make sure his first time is gentle and full of pleasure. Fuck, his cock is stirring in his trousers.

Sherlock continues. “I learn quickly and pick up on cues, so I am confident I can make this pleasurable for you too. Show me and I’ll do whatever you like. I want this, you have my full consent, and my brother will never know, so you have nothing to worry about.”

With a mischievous look, he plucks John’s hand and brings it under the duvet to between his legs. John can feel his hot wet slick on his fingertips and catches himself from groaning. He wants to taste it, or stick his digits into Sherlock’s pretty mouth, have him taste himself. His trousers grow even more uncomfortable and constricting.

Sherlock’s eyes drop to his crotch. He grins, pleased at John’s arousal, and reaches out with his other hand to palm John’s erection.

John unwittingly groans at the sweet touch. Emboldened, Sherlock starts to unzip his trousers, but John snatches his wrist and wrenches it away.

He remembers when he first had sex at thirteen, half a year after he presented. Sex and girls were all he could think about then, so he understands Sherlock’s desire. But he isn’t the right person for such a major experience.

“Sherlock, we can’t do this. There is nothing wrong with wanting to explore sex, but I’m not the right person for you to do this with,” he says, trying to clear his senses of Sherlock’s seductive scent and beauty.

“Of course you are. You’re the only one I feel right doing this with.” Desperate, Sherlock clings to his sleeve. “If you’re concerned about my age, I’m sixteen and fully able to legally consent to sex. Please don’t go. It’s just sex, not like I’m asking for more. I-I won’t ask you to do this again. Just this once, please, for my sake.”

John’s heart squeezes in his chest. How lonely poor, beautiful Sherlock must be, having no peer he can experiment this with. “Oh, Sherlock.” He tucks the blanket in and kisses Sherlock’s forehead. “Goodnight.”

As John turns away, Sherlock asks, pained, "Am I so repulsive to you that you won’t even touch me?”

For the second time in his employment, John shuts the door on a begging, miserable Sherlock in bed.

\-----

It’s during his second date with Tristan that John gets the call from Holmes. Tristan has taken him to a casual, trendy pizzeria well within his wallet’s limitations and, if he is honest, more suitable than the upscale, fine dining restaurant he went to with Sherlock.

The call takes him completely unawares. One moment, he’s feeling light and relaxed, listening to Tristan regale an amusing anecdote about a fellow doctoral candidate, the next, Holmes is on his caller ID.

Holmes’ voice is smooth but terse, belying his worry. “Sherlock has gone missing.”

“He’s _what_?” Tristan stills at his alarm.

“He climbed out his window and evaded security again. We believe he may be in danger and are actively working to locate him.”

“I’m on my way.” John gives Tristan an apologetic look, draws out some notes from his pocket to pay for them both. “I am so sorry, but I have to go.”

“Your teenage client?”

“Yeah, he’s run away.” John grimaces. “I’ll text you,” he promises and gives Tristan a light kiss before he’s out the door.

When he arrives, Alastair is already working on deciphering Sherlock’s likely whereabouts from his notes on his laptop. Sherlock’s arranged to meet someone going by D tonight at 8:00, almost an hour ago.

Holmes and Alastair believe that Sherlock, ever curious and unable to resist a perplexing mystery, has gone to track down the source responsible for the deaths of the three poor omegas, what the press speculates is an underground omega trafficking ring. By himself, a young, defenceless omega.

Once he gets Sherlock out safely, John is going to kill him himself.

\-----

Fully armed, John and Alastair track Sherlock to a squalid, abandoned block in east London. It is too quiet, its windows boarded up, and they have no way of knowing how many men are inside. They infiltrate from the back and move shadow-like through the dingy interior, listening intently for noises giving away guards.

John dispatches the first one he comes across in silence, a young, green recruit who startles at seeing him. With Alastair’s help, he moves the unconscious young man inside a room where his colleagues won’t pass by and see.

But the room isn’t vacant. Huddling together and peaking over a bed are two frightened omega schoolchildren, a boy and girl no older than fourteen. Their torn and wrinkled uniforms show they belong to one of London’s omega-exclusive schools. The bruises and cuts marking their skin enrage John. Handcuffed to the bedpost each, they watch, fearful and helpless, as John and Alastair approach.

John raises a finger to his lips, reassures them under his breath that they’re here to help and asks if they’re hurt. They both shake their heads. He asks if there are other omegas like them here.

Quivering, the boy nods. “Just one other. He was brought in earlier and taken away half an hour ago.”

John and Alastair exchange looks. “Tall, curly hair?”

“Yes. He told them he had something to say to their leader,” the girl pipes up.

Just like Sherlock to dare parley with criminal kingpins. John would punch the wall if that wouldn’t give away their whereabouts or scare the omega students.

They both agree that the vulnerable omegas can’t be left alone, so Alastair will stay with them until reinforcement arrives. John ventures on alone, taking out the armed men he comes across with swift, deadly efficiency.

When he finally finds Sherlock, his vision turns red.

His back to John, Sherlock is disguised like a student, wearing a school uniform like the omegas upstairs. An alpha, obviously the leader of the kidnappers, has his face pressed against Sherlock’s neck, scenting him. There’s a gun in one hand, the other is groping Sherlock’s backside.

Before John can aim around Sherlock and put a bullet between the alpha’s eyes, the alpha has the barrel of his gun pressed against Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock gasps when he’s forced to turn around and face John in the doorway.

“Get your hands off him. He’s _mine_ ,” John snarls, his alpha senses commanding him to annihilate this threat to his omega. Just for touching his precious Sherlock, John is going to cut off both of his hands.

The alpha grins. “Is he? Well then, unless you want a bullet in his pretty head, you’ll drop your gun.”

Seething with white-hot rage, John complies with reluctance, raising his empty palms in the air.

What the alpha does next makes John’s insides boil. Mocking eyes on John, he licks a broad, obscene stripe from Sherlock’s neck all the way up to his cheekbone. Along with his hands, John vows to cut off his tongue too. He will tear this bastard limb by limb for daring to touch, to even _breathe_ , on Sherlock.

The alpha laughs. John’s said that out loud. The arm with the gun straightens until the gunpoint is directed at John instead.

“No, _I’m_ going to kill _you_ , and then I’m going to fuck your pretty, little omega here. He seemed quite eager just now, but when aren’t omegas gagging for an alpha cock up their arse? Maybe I’ll even breed him.”

His crucial mistake is thinking John as the sole threat here and underestimating Sherlock. The gun no longer against his head, Sherlock launches himself onto the alpha’s outstretched arm, knocking off the gun just as the trigger is pulled. The shot goes wide to John’s left. That one split second is all John needs to lunge forward and tackle the cursing alpha to the ground.

They grapple on the floor, rolling around and trading blows while Sherlock scrambles around to collect their guns. John pummels fist after fist on the alpha, relishing in the satisfaction and righteousness that surges through him with every hit. The enemy alpha thrashes back, landing a blow on his nose, but John hardly feels the pain.

“Stop!” The command cuts through John’s fury and halts his movements.

Through the door steps a pair of shining patent leather shoes that belong to the tall, imperious Mycroft Holmes.

“Get up, John.” To the alpha, his cold voice promising terrible outcomes, he says, “You are surrounded by the police. I suggest you comply unless you wish to invoke Scotland Yard’s aggression.”

His lips thin when his cold, silver eyes flick over to his brother, promising punishment.

Behind him comes a voice that makes John feel relief. “I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and I am putting you under arrest for kidnapping, unlawful confinement, and human trafficking.” Greg launches into his right to silence as he handcuffs the alpha.

Holmes goes to his brother, removing his coat to wrap it around Sherlock’s thin shoulders. Now that his body is calming down from adrenaline, John feels something wet on his lip and realizes his nose is bleeding from a hit.

Outside, flanked by police vehicles and officers securing the area, three furious, glaring alphas encircle Sherlock. Swathed in his brother’s overcoat like a vulnerable, flimsy reed, Sherlock, chin up and nose high, nevertheless remains defiant against the combined wrath of John, his brother, and Lestrade.

“How can you do something so stupid?” John shouts the same time as Lestrade barks, “What in hell were you thinking, going off on your own?”

“Indeed, brother dear, for all your intelligence, what drove you, a defenceless omega with no reinforcement, to pursue a criminal ring suspected of omega trafficking _by yourself_?” Mycroft’s voice can freeze ice.

“I had to go on my own because all of you would’ve stopped me. Even with assistance, you or John would never let me anywhere near, and Lestrade refuses to involve me in this case despite Scotland Yard’s shoddy progress.” Sherlock’s eyes are defiant. “As their target, I can infiltrate their criminal ring with ease. Once I’m in, it is only a matter of sending out word of their whereabouts and operations.”

John’s incredulity is mirrored on Greg’s face. Holmes’ face remains cool, though his eyes are furious.

“Enough with your nonsense. You are from now on confined to your room until I deem otherwise. Now get in the car,” Holmes orders, pushing Sherlock into the back of the Mercedes.

It’s a full three hours later by the time John gets back to the house, equal parts exhausted and angry at Sherlock. He and Alastair had stayed behind to give their statements and ensure the omega students are taken care of.

Sherlock is pacing, restless, in his sitting room, having changed into his turquoise silk dressing gown, when John enters.

“I can’t believe you did this!” John snarls, letting out the rage he had to curb for three long, bloody hours.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as if John is being unreasonable. “Spare me the lecture. Mycroft beat you to it. He’s effectively put me under house arrest.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what you were going to do?” asks John, wounded. He thought Sherlock trusted him and knew that he only has Sherlock’s safety at heart. “Even if I didn’t like it, I would’ve done what is needed to keep you safe. I thought you trusted me to take care of you.”

Sherlock seems taken aback but quickly covers it up with haughtiness. “Regretting missing out on the action? Don’t worry, I’m sure your date was infinitely more _worthwhile_ than being on the clock minding young, absurd omegas.”

The jealousy is obvious even to Sherlock’s own ears that, embarrassed and flushing, he turns his back to John.

“Oh, Sherlock. You know you would always come first to me, don’t you?” John assures him, soft and soothing.

“Because my brother _pays_ you generously. You put your duty above everything else, don’t you?” Sherlock bites back bitterly. “Doctor, soldier, bodyguard. You _need_ something to save, and as long as you have a cause or a person to save, your personal feelings towards it don’t matter, do they?”

“Oh, darling, that’s not true. I do care for you. I’d still protect you even if I were no longer your bodyguard. I’ve killed for you and I’d do it again to keep you safe.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment before turning around and whispering, “Did you mean it?”

“I mean every word,” promises John, solemn.

It’s true. Protecting Sherlock is now permanently ingrained into his alpha instincts. He can’t fathom not being there to take care of Sherlock, to make sure he’s had at least a biscuit with his tea every twelve hours, to watch out for him when he’s too caught in his ‘mind palace’ to care about minuscule details like paying for purchases or looking both ways before crossing traffic.

“I meant when you told that alpha I was yours. Did you mean it?” John can feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on him and the heavy anticipation.

What he’d said earlier had come out in the heat of the moment, but, he realizes, no less true.

Sherlock is _his_. To protect, pamper, and cherish. If Sherlock is ever hurt, John would never forgive himself for failing to prevent it. If Sherlock is ever unhappy, John would do anything to make him feel joy, contentment. Anywhere Sherlock goes, John would follow.

Although he genuinely likes Tristan, he can admit now that Tristan is just a convenient replacement for Sherlock. They met in the first place because John went out in search of an omega to get over his attraction to Sherlock.

And he _is_ attracted to Sherlock, not just because of his omega pheromones. He’s attracted to Sherlock’s intelligence and intensity. Even the most ordinary and mundane thing in the world can be of interest when shed under the light of Sherlock’s brilliance. Sherlock will be the death of him, and John wouldn’t want it any other way.

He imagines quitting, leaving this job and Sherlock, forgetting this remarkable omega and moving on with his life. The prospect is so bleak that John has to acknowledge the truth. It’s futile denying to himself what he now knows is true.

“Yes,” he admits in an exhale. “You are mine. My omega.”

Sherlock is his omega. Even if Sherlock doesn’t choose him, even if Sherlock falls in love and bonds with another alpha, becomes another alpha’s mate, John will still protect him, take care of him, and lay down his life for him. He couldn’t otherwise. There isn’t any other omega for John—Sherlock has ruined anyone else for him.

Sherlock stills in disbelief, looks at him like he doesn’t trust John is feeling well.

“Wh-What about _him_ then?” he asks, then immediately covers his ears, regretting his words. “No, I don’t want to hear about your feelings for him.”

Slightly flattered by Sherlock’s jealousy, John rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Sweetheart, as much as I enjoy his company, Tristan can’t compare to you. _No one_ can. And nothing can compare to my feelings for you.”

Wide-eyed, Sherlock searches his face for any sign of doubt. He lets out a breathy, “Do you really mean that?”

John smiles and strokes his thumb over the fine curve of Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Yes, love. I thought you were the most gorgeous and brilliant creature I’ve ever seen when I first met you. You’re nothing less than amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Then why didn’t you want me? You were always chasing other people when I was right here. I tried to show you that I could be a good companion for you, that I could be and do whatever you wanted. But you always preferred someone else. You rejected me every time I offered myself, even when,” he falters, “it was just sex with no further expectations from you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” John breathes out. “How can I take you for my own? You beautiful, lovely thing? You deserve everything your little heart may desire in the world. Why would you want me? I’m damaged and poor and almost twice your age, and I have nothing to offer you.”

“John, you’re the most interesting, the most marvellous person I know. You’re the only alpha for me. I’ve known that for a long time now. Will you take me then, John? I’ve been waiting for you all this time.” Sherlock locks his arms around John’s shoulders.

“Not now, darling. But soon,” he assures, hushing Sherlock with a kiss.

“Why not now? I want you, you want me. What is the problem?” Sherlock wails, frustrated.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John raises Sherlock’s elegant hands and kisses his knuckles. “I want you so badly, my darling. But if I touch you now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop. I want you to claim me, make me yours for the world to see.” There is pleading and even desperation and fear in Sherlock’s beautiful eyes.

John is overcome by sentiment. “Of course, my love. You’ll be my bonded, and everyone will know I’m your alpha,” he promises.

At the word ‘bonded’, Sherlock looks appeased. As if he can ever be anything less to John.

“I want to do this right,” John says. “So please be patient for now, love.” He has to arrange things with Holmes, get his affairs in order. There is no way he’s going to let his precious omega live in that dingy little flat of his.

“Will you at least touch me? I’ve wanted you to touch me for so long.” Sherlock bites his plump bottom lip, and John thinks that it can’t possibly be fair how tempting he is.

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t make this any harder for me. Please.”

“You won’t even kiss me?” His disappointment suddenly transforms to slyness. “Well, since I’m confined to my room indefinitely until Mycroft says so, I’ll have to be watched in case I try to run away again, right?” Of everyone employed by the Holmeses, John is the only one exclusively assigned to Sherlock, so the responsibility of watching Sherlock does fall on his shoulders.

Mischief shining in his eyes, Sherlock, the little minx, undoes the tie of his dressing gown, teasing.

John’s mouth goes dry when the silk gown flops onto the floor around Sherlock’s lovely feet. Gorgeous and nude, Sherlock stands in the centre of the room like a marble masterpiece, beautifully formed, every inch of him perfection. His body is svelte and lithe, his nipples pink peaks made to be licked and kissed, and between his legs, his dainty omega cock stands waiting to be fondled. There’s a translucent glistening on his inner thighs.

Smirking, Sherlock lays down on his back on the bed, bringing his long, lean legs up. One elegant hand grasps his pretty pink cock while the other hand travels further south. John watches Sherlock let out a small, breathy gasp as his fingers breach his wet hole. He needs to get out of here, but his legs won’t move and he can only stare transfixed at the erotic sight of Sherlock, his legs lewdly splayed wide, fingering himself open.

Basking in John’s full attention, Sherlock slips in a second finger, then another. Three digits prove too ambitious. Sherlock, arching off the mattress, gasps John’s name. He’s getting so wet. John can see the glistening slick gushing from the cleft of his arse. He wants to palm those round cheeks apart and just lap up Sherlock’s juices from his most intimate place. He’ll lick him loose and open before aligning his cock—

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, “I need you.”

John’s cock is painfully hard now in his trousers. He can’t stop staring at the lovely white stretch of Sherlock’s elegant throat, imagining how it’ll look marked with the circular proof of John’s claim.

Resolve crumbling, he gives in to Sherlock and delicately rests his palms on the tempting expanse of milky skin. He nudges Sherlock’s hands away, taking over and dipping his fingers into Sherlock’s wet, stretched hole. His digits are thicker than Sherlock’s, so two is enough to stretch the rim tight. Sherlock gasps, eyelashes fluttering, when John begins scissoring his fingers.

“Darling, I’ll make you feel so good,” John promises under his breath, entranced by the sight of Sherlock’s juices gushing over his knuckles.

He withdraws his fingers and press them against Sherlock’s plump lips. Sherlock obediently takes them into his mouth and sucks on them. John imagines something thicker parting those swollen red lips instead, of hollowed cheeks, Sherlock struggling not to gag as he takes more and more down his flushed throat.

“Do-do you have something you use to relieve yourself in heat?”

Sherlock nods, flicking his eyes at the ornate nightstand beside his bed. John finds an assortment of heat aids, all with replicated knots for omegas’ pleasure, and selects an average-sized one.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter when John penetrates him with the dildo. John gently works it in and out while fondling his pretty cock, wringing out strangled gasps and cries and moans from his exquisite omega. It isn’t long before Sherlock is quaking and spilling himself over John’s hand.

“Mm, John,” Sherlock purrs like a satisfied cat. Quicksilver eyes alight on the big bulge at John’s crotch. “My turn.”

John moves just out of his reach. “Not tonight, my darling.” He rests a finger on Sherlock’s lips to silence his protests. “I want to take you for the first time when you’re fully mine.”

Sherlock understands and lets John clean him up, tuck him under the sheets.

John spends the next hour in the shower.

\-----

Unlike other bureaucrats at Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes isn’t the sort to put off urgent matters and pass the buck along. So when John delivers his resignation, he sets aside his very important work with promptness and gives John his undivided attention.

“What has brought on this sudden decision? Are you dissatisfied with your compensation? Sherlock has taken quite a liking to you, and you seem equally fond of him despite his unconventional ways. You’ve proven very competent at what you do, and believe me when I say there are few hands I would dare entrust Sherlock with. How can I implore you to stay on as his security operative?”

“I’m afraid there is nothing you can do, sir. The truth is I can’t continue to care for Sherlock in a professional capacity any longer.”

Holmes’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“I assure you I care for him very deeply. So much that I wish to spend the rest of my life ensuring his happiness and protection.” John clears his throat and continues, voice strong and even, “That is why I’m asking for your approval to bond with Sherlock.”

Holmes’ usually calm eyes bulge out of their sockets, a sight John imagines have been witnessed by very few.

“And if I don’t grant it?”

“Then I will bond with him without your approval,” John declares with the most certainty he’s ever felt towards anything in his life.

For a moment, Holmes says nothing, then, “I have no doubt he will do the same.

“I care about my brother very much—he is all the family I’ve left after all. His future happiness, wellbeing, and security are paramount to me. I’m sure you understand my reservations about giving him to a man with few resources and even fewer opportunities.”

John does understand. If he were Holmes, he’d want an alpha who can ensure precious, exquisite Sherlock never wants for anything. Certainly not a poor, battered, old soldier.

Holmes sighs in exasperation and calls out, “I know you’re there behind the bookcase. If you are going to eavesdrop, at least don’t annoy your quarry into throwing you out with your loud breathing.”

A scowling Sherlock steps out from the wall of bookcases behind John. “Admit it, you just realized I was there all this time.”

“No, I’ve been aware of your presence for a while now. I suspected it had to do with John, though I confess this was not what I had in mind. As this concerns you, you might as well come out of hiding and join the conversation.”

“You can’t stop us from bonding,” Sherlock declares outright, blazing with determination. “He’s mine and I’m his, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. If you try to keep me from him, I’ll run away.”

Holmes assesses them sharply. A long silence ensues before he relents. “I know what you look like when you absolutely want something, Sherlock, and I’ve never seen it directed at anyone. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d lose you so soon. Very well then.”

With that, he turns back to his papers, dismissing them.

The door is almost shut when Holmes calls out, his eyes never leaving his work. “John? I don’t believe I need to impress upon you the devastating extent of what I will do to you should you ever fail to protect Sherlock and keep him happy. Are we clear?”

\-----

With Mycroft’s usual expediency, the bond papers are drawn up the very next day. As Sherlock is still underage, Mycroft, his legal guardian, is the one to sign the contract legally binding a William Sherlock Scott Holmes, omega, to one John Hamish Watson, alpha. John has never signed any document with less hesitation.

Sherlock is all over him when he hears the news. In the eyes of the law, they are bonded, with a formal marriage to follow later. It’s good timing, because John can already smell the tanginess of Sherlock’s oncoming heat, just a few days away now.

Within the week, John signs the lease to 221B Baker Street and moves in with Sherlock. The landlady, the lovely Mrs. Hudson, is a dear friend of Bertha’s and shares the same deep fondness for the younger Mr. Holmes, enough to rent out her flat to John at a favourable rate. John is infinitely grateful as his bank account, although swollen considerably from working for Mycroft, can’t sustain the living expenses of Central London, and he knows there is nowhere else Sherlock can happily live. Any financial assistance from his brother-in-law is out of the question, so a new job is in order, perhaps at a clinic, although he loathes the thought of leaving Sherlock when he’s spent almost every day with him for the past several months.

Sherlock goes into heat the second day in their new home. The cloying scent of his pre-heat permeates 221B, which John has to endure as he unpacks their boxes. Sherlock is irritable from the hypersensitivity of heat all day, flitting around in his dressing gown doing nothing besides tempting John.

Finally, Sherlock’s scent becomes impossible to resist. John hands him a glass of water and a contraceptive pill, which he takes reluctantly, unable to look John in the eye. John kisses the side of his head as he downs the pill, promises him that if he wants pups, John will give him a litter, but John just wants him to himself for now. Then John takes him to bed.

He lays Sherlock down gingerly and climbs over him, Sherlock’s long legs coming up to bracket his ribs. Despite the desperation and urgency of heat, he undresses Sherlock with reverence, kissing every beautiful inch of skin he uncovers.

Around Sherlock’s neck is a metal chain that leads down to John’s dog tags. Sherlock blushes but doesn’t avoid John’s curious look.

“I found them in your flat. As you clearly aren’t using them, I saw no harm in taking them.”

John had packed it away with his army gear, wanting nothing in sight that would remind him of the horrors of Afghanistan. Sherlock would have to have searched thoroughly to find it. All this time he’d been wearing his dog tags around his neck under his shirt.

Sherlock tugs at his jumper, insistent. John pulls it over his head, revealing his bare, scarred torso, and fights down his self-consciousness. The firm muscles on his chest and abdomen haven’t been affected by his new civilian life but neither have the scars and wounds faded much in the short time. Sherlock’s hands are immediately drawn to the ugly scarring on his shoulder.

“You could’ve almost died.” Sherlock’s fingertips tenderly trace the raised, crater-like skin with wonder. “And then I never would’ve met you and there would be no alpha for me. I would’ve been alone forever.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. You would’ve found someone else.”

“No, there won’t be anyone else!” Sherlock insists, vehement. “There’s only you for me and me for you.” He says the last part with a frown, no doubt thinking of all the people John has dated.

“Yes, only you for me.” John assures him, manoeuvring Sherlock onto his front, and nearly groans at the sight of Sherlock’s shiny and wet backside, the back of his thighs gleaming with omega slick. The heady scent makes his mouth water.

He holds Sherlock down with a hand on his lower back and strokes the cleft of his arse, his finger slipping in with ease.

Sherlock cries, tries to jerk his hips back to impale himself on John’s finger. John moves his finger deeper in, then out, admiring the view of Sherlock’s pink rim stretched around his digit.

He replaces his finger with his mouth instead. He laps at his slick, then swirls his tongue and darts it deep inside Sherlock, loosening his hole. The taste of an omega is sweeter than anything he’s tasted. He’s reminded of an erotic poem he read in his literature class at uni of there being no sweeter nectar than the juices of an omega ripe with heat. He could eat Sherlock out for hours like this. Indeed, he thinks this, Sherlock’s natural omega juices dribbling down his slender thighs, is his new weakness.

But enough. His cock is throbbing; he needs to be inside Sherlock. He gets off to remove his remaining trousers and pants, freeing his erection. Sherlock’s protest at the loss of contact breaks off when he cranes his head over a shoulder and sees John’s thick, fully-engorged alpha cock, the veins prominent, jutting out from tawny curls.

“Oh,” he breathes out, his pupils dilating, his pink tongue darting out to unconsciously lick his lips. He crawls to the edge of the bed, his own petite omega cock dangling primly between his thighs. “I knew you’re big. I tried to estimate the size of your knot but I didn’t get to see it all last time. Can I measure it? What if it doesn’t fit? Can I lick it?”

John groans as Sherlock leans over his crotch. The first curious lick of Sherlock’s tongue on his heated erection has him hissing. Emboldened, Sherlock laves up the underside of John’s cock and tongues the slit.

Oh fuck, oh fuck. John catches himself before thrusting into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock looks so pleased at John’s loss of control that he takes the crown into his mouth and sucks. Careful to control his gag reflex, he slowly lowers his head onto John’s cock—he’s had practice, John realizes. He’s thought about sucking John’s cock and likely practiced on a cucumber.

Sherlock’s lips smirk around John’s girth as he reads John’s thoughts. Naughty little minx.

Well, if Sherlock wants an alpha cock down his throat so badly, John will give it to him. Fisting Sherlock’s curls to hold him in place, John pushes the length of his cock, slippery from Sherlock’s saliva, inside the hot, wet cavern of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as John begins thrusting gently. He takes John’s cock like a good boy, lets John fuck his mouth, while his fingers massage John’s growing knot and tight sacs.

As much as John wants to spurt his seed down Sherlock’s throat, it’s not how he wants to finish the first time he fucks Sherlock. No, he wants to come buried deep inside Sherlock’s arse to his omega sobbing his name. He can come inside Sherlock’s mouth another round—they have forty-eight hours before the heat subsides after all.

Pulling out to Sherlock’s whimpering, he directs Sherlock on to his back and spreads his long legs. Taking his erection in hand, he aligns the tip of his cock with Sherlock's tiny hole and nudges it in. Sherlock arches off the bed, sobbing. John grasps his hips and plunges inch by inch into virgin tightness until he's fully sheathed.

God, Sherlock’s tightness feels absolutely exquisite. His alpha nature urge him to thrust in, rut, _breed_ his omega, but it’s precious Sherlock’s first time being penetrated by an alpha cock, so he forces himself still to let Sherlock adjust to the stretching.

“John, just _move_ already! I need you!”

Never able to refuse Sherlock, John hooks his elbows under Sherlock’s knees and begins rocking into him, gently at first, then with more force. The sight of his red cock disappearing inside Sherlock’s arse takes his breath away.

Soon he’s fucking his omega in earnest, Sherlock wailing his alpha’s name every time John’s cock bangs his core. Sherlock screams, his eyes rolling back, when John hits his prostate. John can tell he’s near and starts milking Sherlock’s small omega cock in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock comes to John sinking his teeth into his neck and passes out from the force of his orgasm. John keeps chasing his own orgasm, fucking Sherlock’s limp body like a rag doll.

One final thrust and he’s spewing semen inside Sherlock, his swollen knot locking them together.

John is licking at the raw bondbite when Sherlock comes to.

“Now the world can see who you belong to. God, I love you _so much_.” John nuzzles his neck. Sherlock’s hand flies up to feel the bite.

Sherlock glows with such happiness that John thinks there can’t be any sight more beautiful in the universe.


End file.
